


Kissing Tiny Flowers

by parenthetical



Category: Supernatural
Genre: 5 Things, Flowers, Gen, Pre-Series, SPN: Season One, spn: season two
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-12-23
Updated: 2007-12-23
Packaged: 2017-10-02 01:21:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,980
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1145
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/parenthetical/pseuds/parenthetical
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Five times Dean hated flowers, and one time he didn't.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Kissing Tiny Flowers

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Rinkle for her prompt _concussion, flowers_. Title from Led Zeppelin's _That's The Way_. Spoilers for episode 1.01, and references to the end of Season 2.

The first time Dean accompanied his father on a hunt, he was eight years old.

It was a simple salt and burn, nothing more complicated, or John wouldn't have taken him along at all. Even then, it only happened because Sam was still recovering from a stomach bug and was staying with Pastor Jim. Dean had been begging his father to let him come along and help ever since he was six and had learned to shoot, but he knew the first priority had to be protecting Sammy, and that was his job. With Sammy in safe hands, though, his father took Dean along on his "business trip" that evening.

The graveyard was dark and deserted, and Dean clutched the salt and the lighter fluid tightly as he followed his father between the graves. He wanted to ask his father how he knew where the grave they were looking for was, but something about the darkness of the cemetery didn't permit questions.

"Here we are," his father said finally, setting down the shovel he was carrying. "Marie Leyman." Dean studied the grave, trying to look as confident as if this was nothing new, nothing out of the ordinary. The stone had only the name and dates carved into it. He counted silently in his head: she'd been 24 years old when she'd died. The funeral hadn't been that long ago: there were still flowers on top of the grave, wilted and turning brown.

"Her ghost has been haunting the bridge where she died," his father told him. "So we're going to lay her to rest, Dean. We're going to dig until we find her coffin, and then salt and burn her corpse."

Dean liked that "we". It felt awesome to finally be able to help. "Can I help to dig?"

His father laughed. "I think the shovel might be a bit heavy for you, kiddo. Tell you what, why don't you clear those flowers out of the way? That'd be a great help. Just pile them across there, we'll put them back when we're done."

Dean set the salt and lighter fluid down, then stepped up to the grave. It felt weird, taking the woman's flowers, but it was probably okay if he was going to put them back.

There was a bunch of white roses, petals crinkled up and brown along the edges. Dean lifted them gingerly and carried them out of the way, swallowing hard as the smell wafted up at him, sickly sweet amidst the rot. There was an arrangement of mixed flowers, yellow and pink and purple, he thought, though he didn't know their names and the colours were hard to make out now. Some of the flowers had withered completely, were hard to the touch and shrivelled beyond recognition. Others were still dying, and those were almost worse. Their smell hadn't faded entirely.

Dean was glad when the last of the flowers were out of the way.

"Good," his father said, and picked up the shovel. "Okay, Dean, watch and see how it's done, and maybe you can help with this part next time."

Dean watched with interest as his father dug up the grave. It took longer than he'd expected, and there was a lot of soil piled on the edge by the time his father said, "Okay, here's the coffin. See, Dean?"

He had to stand right on the edge to see down, because the hole his father had dug was very deep.

"Okay," his father said. "I'm going to use the shovel to open the coffin. It's not going to look or smell pretty, so I want you to go back a few steps and put your hand over your nose, got that, Dean?"

Dean half-wanted to argue - he wasn't some clueless little kid who needed to be protected - but he knew better than to talk back to his father, particularly on a hunt. Besides, part of him wasn't entirely sure he really wanted to see. The flowers and the grave were creepy enough. A dead body... He backed off a few paces and obediently covered his nose.

There were several sharp cracking sounds as his father smashed open the coffin. Dean suppressed his curiosity with an effort and picked up the salt, keeping one hand over his nose.

His father tossed the shovel back up onto the edge of the grave, then pulled himself out after it. Dean carried the salt across to him.

"Thanks, Dean," his father said, getting to his feet and taking the canister from him. "Would you pass me the lighter fluid, too?"

Dean did so while his father scattered salt down into the hole, then Dean picked up the shovel to carry it back out of the way. He couldn't help glancing down for a moment, that close to the edge.

The body was gross. Seriously gross. Dean kept his hand clamped across his nose and backed away with the shovel as quickly as he could, struggling to drag it with only one free hand.

His father sprinkled lighter fluid into the hole too, then pulled out a book of matches. "Next time we do this, you can do this part, Dean, okay? If it's just bones we're dealing with."

"Cool," Dean said, muffled by his hand. He was just as glad his father wasn't about to let him do that this time. Cool though it would be, he didn't really want to see that rotting body again, the sight of all that blonde hair surrounded by decomposing flesh, mottled and wrinkling like the flowers he'd moved away from the grave.

Afterwards, when they arrived back at Pastor Jim's, Dean took a long shower, trying to scrub the smell off himself. Not so much the smell of the smoke, but the sweet, dead scent of the decaying flowers.

~*~

Pastor Jim's garden was small: the grounds of the church weren't particularly large, and there were only a few flower beds over by the wall. Sammy was picking flowers when Dean found him.

"Look, Dean!" Sammy exclaimed happily, thrusting the bunch he was holding towards his brother. "Pretty flowers!"

Dean swallowed hard and managed not to take a step back. "Sammy - you can't just pick them!"

Sammy looked worried for a moment, then brightened. "But Pastor Jim said I could! Said they'll look pretty in our room and smell nice too. Look, roses!"

Dean stared at the roses - mostly just the heads, really, as Sammy had evidently struggled with the thick stems. "Yeah, I see that." All he could see in his mind's eye was the decaying flowers he'd moved from the grave the week before, wilted and dead.

"Don't you like them?" Sammy asked, looking crestfallen.

Dean forced himself to smile. It wasn't Sammy's fault, after all. He was too young to know he'd killed all the pretty flowers he was holding. "No, they're... nice, Sammy. Pretty."

Sammy beamed again. "Come help me put them in a vase!"

The vase of flowers ended up in the kitchen, much to Dean's relief. He wasn't sure how well he'd have been able to sleep if they'd been put in their bedroom. The sickly sweet scent of the flowers was enough to put him off his food.

In bed that night, Sammy said, "Dean?"

Dean turned his head to look across at him. "What?"

Sammy's voice was very small when he asked, "Did Mom like flowers? Is that why...?"

Dean turned away. "Go to sleep, Sammy."

The truth was, he didn't know whether Mom had liked flowers. He couldn't remember seeing her with any, but that didn't mean anything. His memories of her were fading, slipping away from him. The thought of blonde hair brought back clearer memories of the half-glimpsed corpse from the week before than of his mother.

He was losing her again, and it wasn't Sammy's fault - Sammy couldn't remember her at all, which always made Dean feel sorry for him - but Dean couldn't talk about her, not now.

He thought about asking their father whether Mom had liked flowers, and wondered whether the chance of getting an answer was high enough to make it worth his father's inevitable drinking session afterwards.

~*~

Palo Alto was surprisingly cold in January, or maybe Dean was just an emo little bitch.

He had every right to be there, he told himself. Palo Alto was totally on the way to Arizona. Okay, so maybe not when you were starting from Utah, but hell, it wasn't like anyone gave a damn.

Even though he had every right to be there, he wasn't sure Sam would agree he had the right to follow him around all afternoon. But what Sammy didn't know wouldn't hurt him.

He sat up straighter in the Impala as Sam ducked unexpectedly into a store on the corner. He'd been expecting Sam to head straight back to his dorm, but evidently Sam had an errand to run. At the florist's.

Dean frowned, then slid slower again in his seat when Sam re-emerged a few minutes later holding a huge bouquet. No roses, but lots of pink carnations and white sprinkly flowers, all wrapped up in clear plastic so they could fake being alive for a bit longer.

Sam headed off in a direction Dean wasn't familiar with - not his dorm, not where his classes were held, not work, not the library. Presumably he was going to take the bouquet to whatever chick he'd bought it for. Dean wondered whether to follow.

His cell phone rang in his pocket, and Dean pulled it out, hitting the button. "Hey."

"Hey, Dean," his father said warmly. "Happy birthday, son."

Dean watched Sam turn the corner, flowers in hand. "Thanks, Dad."

~*~

Sam didn't speak on the way to the cemetery.

Dean didn't bother casting around for something to say. He wasn't too good with words at the best of times, and they weren't going to do a goddamn thing to help Sam at the moment. In the silence, the scent of the flowers in Sam's lap seemed to expand and fill the whole car, overpowering and deathly sweet.

Sam was staring at them, or through them. Dean wasn't sure which.

"She hated roses," Sam said unexpectedly as they pulled up next to the graveyard.

Dean darted a quick glance at him. Sam's voice was unsteady, and he was still staring at the flowers. The suit was all wrong on him, made him look like a stranger, not the Sammy that Dean knew at all.

"They're nice," Dean hazarded. "Those ones, I mean." He didn't say _I'm sure she'd like them_; he didn't think he had that right.

"Yeah," Sam said, and fell silent again, before finally getting out of the car.

Dean let him go to the grave by himself, and was waiting when he came back, blank-eyed and silent.

The scent of the flowers lingered all the way back to the motel.

~*~

Okay, Sam was gigantic enough at the best of times. There was absolutely no call for there to be _two_ of him. That was just unfair.

"Dean?" both of the Sams asked. "How many fingers am I holding up?"

Dean tried to focus. "Which one of you?"

"Uh-huh," the Sams said. "Okay, c'mon, big brother."

Dean thought the whole pulling-to-feet plan would have worked better if the Sams had taken a side each, but the world was spinning a bit too dizzily for him to complain other than by groaning. He leaned against the nearest Sam and held on.

"Easy," Sam's voice said soothingly. At least he hadn't cloned his voice, too. "It tossed you against that gravestone pretty hard, huh? The thorns on those roses have bloodied your face up, too."

Well, that explained why his cheek was stinging. "Fucking flowers," Dean muttered and held on tighter to Sam as his brother tried to move. The moving thing was not a good idea, he felt.

"C'mon, Dean," Sam coaxed. "Back to the car, then we'll go to the hospital and get you patched up, okay?"

Oh no. Not okay at all. The world was spinning too horribly for him to speak, but something of his feelings must have been communicated to Sam, because his brother said, "Dean, you've got a concussion, man. We're _going_ to the hospital."

An arm settled more securely across Dean's shoulder, supporting him. Dean didn't open his eyes to see which of the Sams it belonged to, though.

A year or two ago he'd have been able to order Sam to drive back to the motel instead, but Sam had gotten touchy since he'd broken Dean's deal. He'd take Dean to the hospital for a splinter these days, given half a chance, and never mind the fact that the FBI was after them and their insurance was non-existent.

Fuck, his head hurt. What the hell had even happened?

_Ghost_, a scrap of memory prompted unexpectedly. Huh. "Ghost?"

"Gone," Sam said. "I took care of it. But the fact that you're only asking now is exactly why I'm taking you to the hospital."

"No," Dean said, vaguely aware even as he said it that he sounded like a fretful child. He had to convince Sam somehow. "Sam - Sammy, no. Hate hospitals. Motel."

"I know you don't like them, but I want a doctor to take a look at whatever damage you've managed to do to your head this time," Sam said.

Too many words. "No," Dean tried again. "Too clean, and... ghosts everywhere. And flowers. They bring you _flowers_, Sam."

Sam had the nerve to sound amused, the bastard. "Sometimes, yeah. I promise they won't claw up your face like those roses, though."

Dean wasn't reassured. "Fucking hate flowers."

His brother huffed a laugh. They stopped moving for a moment, and Dean heard a click before Sam was pushing him gently backwards. Oh. They were at the car. He let Sam manhandle him into place, and tilted his head back gratefully, letting the comforting smell of the Impala surround him.

He heard doors opening and shutting, but they seemed to be coming from a long way off. It took a while for Sam's voice to penetrate. "Dean. Dean!"

Dean groaned softly at the disturbance.

"Dean, you can't go to sleep," Sam said urgently. The engine roared into life. "C'mon, Dean, you know the score. Open your eyes, talk to me."

"Tired," Dean mumbled.

"I know, I know," Sam said. "And you can sleep soon, but not yet, okay? I need you to stay awake for me for now. Talk to me - tell me why you hate flowers or something, Dean. Dean! Hey. They just too girly for you, is that it?"

Dean frowned sluggishly and tried to force his eyes open. "Flowers... not girly, they're _creepy_. It's fucked up."

"Creepy?" Sam said. He sounded kind of incredulous, but maybe Dean's hearing was just screwed up. "What's creepy about them, Dean? Tell me, come on."

"Fucking dead," Dean told him. "Pretend to be alive, and everyone says _oh, so pretty_, and they're dead and just don't look like it yet. They're like - like zombies. Fucking zombie flowers, all over the place."

Sam made a choking sound. Dean thought maybe he was getting through to him. "Smell like cemet- cem- graveyards," he continued. It suddenly seemed very important that Sam understand this. "You wake up in hospital, and it's like - you think you've been buried or something, till the drugs wear off, with the smell of them. All the zombie flowers. Zombies don't kill flowers, they just make them look like they should. Already dead to start with. And I never asked Dad if she liked them."

He trailed off, swallowing a weird lump in his throat. God, his head fucking hurt. Where were they even going?

"To the hospital," Sam said, so either his freaky brain powers were making a comeback, or Dean had said that out loud. "But hey, Dean - look, no flowers, okay? I promise."

"Really?" Dean asked cautiously. "Sometimes they bring 'em while I'm sleeping."

"I'll make sure none of the - the zombie flowers get near you," Sam said. His voice sounded weird, kinda choked. "I promise, Dean. I'll keep the zombie flowers away while you're sleeping."

Dean sighed, but relaxed slightly. Sam mostly kept his promises, particularly about saving Dean from things. "Okay. Hospital."

~*~

The first thing Dean saw when he opened his eyes was Sam grinning at him. It was always an awesome sight to wake up to, no matter what he told Sam.

"Hey," Sam said cheerfully. "How are you feeling?"

"Urgh. Okay," Dean said, touching his head gingerly. "What happened?"

"Concussion. Ghost tossed you into a gravestone," Sam said. "You're in the hospital."

Oh, yeah. Now Sam came to mention it, the overly sterile surroundings did have that hospital feel. Dean glanced around and paused at the sight of something bright and bouquet-shaped on the bedside table.

"Ah," Sam said. The way he was grinning was doing nothing to reassure Dean. "I thought you probably wouldn't appreciate any, um, "zombie flowers" -"

Oh, fuck. What the hell had Dean said while he was out of it?

"- So I got you a chocolate bouquet instead," Sam continued. "All they had were rose-shaped ones, but I figured you'd put up with that, since they don't have any thorns."

Dean stared at the foil-wrapped chocolate flowers. Now Sam mentioned it, he could smell the chocolate.

"No zombies involved," Sam said, fighting to keep a straight face and failing utterly.

Dean scowled at him. "Go find a doctor to bust me out of here, bitch."

"If you're sure you can fend off the zombies while I'm gone -" Sam started, and beat a hasty retreat before Dean could throw the TV remote at him, his laughter echoing down the corridor after him.

Dean watched him go, then reached up and snagged one of the chocolate flowers.


End file.
